


come tomorrow, feel no pain.

by theydie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Developing Relationship, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theydie/pseuds/theydie
Summary: "any last words for our future selves?"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	come tomorrow, feel no pain.

**Author's Note:**

> ep 161 did this to me + it's my duty to make t/m bond over metal. thankx to the friends who proofread this!

tim has a habit of drinking on the job, this is common knowledge among the archival staff. no one addresses it too often, especially people outside of his circle of friends and those closer who’ve made their way past his metaphorical walls. elias doesn’t interfere frequently either and most of the employees below take note of this. still, it’s something martin keeps an eye on, as any regular companion does - worrying over their friends well being. he doesn’t drink much himself, a lightweight who doesn’t thrive when living on the edge. ...and he definitely isn’t anyone’s keeper, especially not tim’s with how free-spirited he seems to be. 

the fluidity in his arms is something martin finds himself observing far too much, enraptured by the way the other moves. there’s a flow to the movement that just can’t be replicated otherwise. it’s not something insidious, it would never be, and he’s sure it’s not idolization either. it’s just tim, he thinks, then quickly dismisses the thought. it’s not the muscle kept there that he yearns for, but the embrace. 

without much attention, he observes other employees passby and offer their regards - their best wishes once they see the cake and sparse birthday decorations spread throughout the breakroom’s lounge. a lot of faces are vaguely familiar, shaped in ways that he processes as one’s he’s seen before, but none of them can really compare to...

martin blinks, eyes focusing and ears tuning in just as the recording is turned off with a resounding click - just as jon speaks with a restrained annoyance. blood pounds steadily, sticking to the rhythm his heart had already set. the tape stops there, and he looks into his paper cup, half-empty. the wine is too bitter, stuck between tart and sour. drinking, that sows an indescribable feeling that can be left at ‘bad.’ reflexively, he makes a face while taking a sip. over his drink, he watches tim loosen up again. screws begin coming undone, a fine-tuned piece of machinery unwinding. it’s a fantasy to him, how carefree tim can be. envy combs the back of his throat, a sensation tempting nausea and something far worse. it could just be the wine, but the cloud is quickly swept away as tim turns from his conversation. a sun bursting, warding off the bad weather martin’s so accustomed to.

the smile he bears burns more than lukewarm wine does, pours a warmth over martin that alcohol just can’t outmatch. his posture solidifies, grip on the cup faltering - just barely catching it from falling. while a miniature fumble, it presents itself as the only thing his mind can focus on. martin exhales sharp, just as jon who stands beside him does. a domino effect that he won’t - can’t think too deeply about. it’s immediately removed from his radar, etching outside of the already-narrow scope.

tim makes his way over the two, arms outstretched and hands-free - signaling that his cup has been emptied and already discarded. without a hint of hesitation, he forms a finger gun and wags it at martin in greeting. the words he say fall upon faulty ears, the conversation struck down by a properly agitated jon. still, tim continues to bat.

*

there’s no concrete schedule in the archives, or maybe there is and neither of them had paid much attention. few are the windows that are provided. hours spent there tend to blur, even without wine coming into play. the path that lead to the two of them cleaning up the breakroom is a long, winding one. despite everything, tim still prides himself on being cleanly. for martin, though, it’s a manner his mother left him with. cleaning up after others isn’t new, rather, it’s something familiar and mundane that gives him a normal-regulated amount of control. it’s a practice that leaves himself feeling more a person than not. he ballz up the plastic-tablecloth as tim shelves what’s left of the paper-cups.

they work together for a little longer. coming close to diligence. 

martin is washing his hands, feeling over his empty palms. somewhere in the background, tim finishes sweeping - quick, without much efficiency. it’s not a product of laziness, only the lack of keen eye. he wonders if he’ll have to spot clean anything left behind. with a paper towel in-hand, he turns just as his coworker begins to speak. 

“working up a sweat over there?” tim jokes, grin casual as he leans on one of the chairs - just pushed into place.

“what?” he’s sure he heard what was said, but martin’s mind struggles to respond fast enough. after a moment, “oh, no.” 

following that, is a series of murmurs. attentive, tim nods before looking over the shoulder - at seemingly nothing. time comes to a still, the scene quieting as the two stay put. martin’s mind wanders without bounds, easily fixating on something small. electrifying, ‘ _ what words would he leave for his future self _ ?’ the question sparks.

his mouth goes dry, only at the thought of time’s passage. it’s something constricting, so beyond anyone’s control. tim cracks his neck, idle, before turning to look back at martin - expression warm and mouth soft. the action brings his focus back in, daydream clearing like a cloud of smoke no longer there.

“hey,” quieter, the other’s tone tempered more than martin anticipated. maybe it’s a result of it only being them two there. “you needed a ride home, didn’t you?”

martin purses his lips, racking his brain to remember the exchange where he had even asked. it’s not something he does, asking favors of others. of course there’s no shame in it, but he always liked to think of himself as self-dependent, independent in the words of his mother. looking to the side, observing a speck of dust float through the sun streaming through parted curtains. the stage had been set far before he was ready to perform. 

resigned, “i do, but -”

and tim interrupts.

“worry not, martin!”

“tim.” he says, with a frown that’s meant to have much more energy in it than it does. it’s lopsided and shaped wrong. exhaustion has yet to settle in. “you were drinking.”

“well,” tilting his head to the side, averting eye contact before focusing again. tim says, as if a quip, “i’d say i’m about sober now.”

martin shakes his head, going to cross his arms to put some sort-of wall between them. despite his fondness for tim, some things shouldn’t be let go. a panic crawls across his back, he shivers as a shudder creeps down his spine. there’s a train wreck kept underneath the skin, bones knocking into each other like ruined carts piled up over one another. it’s hard for him to experience strong emotions, he’s convinced himself of this. he doesn’t have to say a thing for tim to take the hint, air having already changed.

“well,” tim starts, then stops. he’s uncertain where to go from there, and he doesn’t try to begin again. 

martin squeezes at his own hand, searching for grounding. less of an offering, more a statement, “i can drive you home.” blurted.

there’s a tack at the tip of his tongue, a sharpness that leaves him uncomfortable as metal spreads across the palate. martin bites down hard before sighing. he hates having to take responsibility, surprising enough. it’s complicated, martin doesn’t have enough time to dissect the unease. when he looks up, tim is still there - this time, nodding. expression sincere and understanding, he doesn’t question martin’s certainty. he’s thankful for that.

again, he looks away. using a free hand, he holds it out - palm up. without a word tim nods another time, processing the gesture in silence. twisting some to dig keys out. it’s a short interval. this too, begins to blur. there’s a familiarity to the give-and take, one martin can’t quite place. deja vu isn’t rare within the walls of the archive. 

*

getting into the car doesn’t come with much difficulty, tim is compliant unlike others martin had taken to watching over. and he’s not the other’s keeper, martin reminds himself. it’s not his first time behind the wheel of tim’s car, and it won’t be the last. there’s no negative sentiment to the realization, it soon passes as he mentally prepares himself to drive stick. idly resituating himself in the seat, experimentally pressing a foot to the clutch with the car off. the pedal resists, barely, or maybe it’s his own hesitaion. martin takes a deep breath, then exhales sharply while adjusting the mirror. 

“sorry,” a quick apology for something he won’t address in detail. somewhere in the back of his mind, martin can imagine his mother reprimanding him for causing such a fuss. the imaginary conflict adds about a ton onto his shoulders, slouching in the seat only to sit up again. 

tim’s skull stays put where it rests against the headrest. his seatbelt hugs him, dark and cutting into the soft cover the jacket provides. martin racks his brain to frame a poem from this, he takes a stab and thinks… something-something, present. and then he scoffs, at himself. still, time together is a gift. tim’s head lolls to the side, just enough to where he can see his driver. a grin is there, loose and lopsided. it’s stupid-looking, and charming in a way that martin wouldn’t be able to put into words either. his expression reads as sincere, features soft around the edges. it dawns upon him that tim is making the face he does when he mishears, or completely doesn’t catch a thing. a blank, lax faux-attentive. how well martin knows the other makes his stomach turn.

after what seems like forever, “it’s alright, martin.” a hush, practically spoken under the breath - almost an afterthought. one of tim’s arm goes for the side of his chair, slowly reclining the shotgun seat back. the car squeaks, working hard. it’s nonchalant manner is something martin envies, can’t afford for himself - and now he’s overthinking again. he’s not surprised at all by tim’s personality barrier separating them both, but something is off. there’s a string out of tune and martin isn’t sure which of the six it is, he dares to strum and listen again.

the car starts.

all the cds in the middle console bring back a strange sense of nostalgia. martin doesn’t have enough time to deep dive through the music, focus already splitting. turning over in his seat, tim is working against the seatbelt. after a few moments he manages to get a cd into the player. martin’s acutely aware of how quickly sobering his friend is becoming, not that it does any wrong. the lack of fumbling with the cd case is indicative, or maybe it’s just sure-drunk determination. tim mumbles along to the radio right after skipping a couple of tracks, the player layering a low hum underneath the audio. the background noise is appreciated, it’s comfortable to have beside the groan of music. 

the familiar beat gets under martin’s skin. it’s erratic and neverending, fast-acting and leaving behind an undeniable tremble. anxiety dives deep, something sharp threatening with a new synergy. he releases a breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. martin needs to stop thinking, he can’t stop thinking about it - and, with chest tight,    
  
“how do you drive like this?” it’s far from judgemental, the words come out shaken. the humming pauses, a short break that martin’s mind recognizes immediately. a quick change picked up by his own self-destructive radar. 

tim resituates himself in his seat, snapping the seatbelt over his abdomen. facing forward while his eye catches martin.

innocent, “what do you mean?” 

he knows the car isn’t revving, but it’s hard to distinguish the metal rumbling from mechanical roaring. 

“this music,” martin tries to elaborate without the wires of his focus fraying. the emphasis doesn’t do much explaining, and the stifled laugh tim gives doesn’t help either. there’s the urge to gesture, to swipe at the air until the right words manifest - but he can’t. instead martin rhythmically squeezes the sides of the wheel. 

a thoughtful hum from tim’s side of the car. 

“what?” it’s playful, question insincere to hide the knowing tone buried below. “not a fan of metal?”

the face martin makes is bewildered. expression contorting into something indecisive, going from shock to disbelief, mouth open as he tries to form a response. it’s something caught between offended and defensive. grip on the steering wheel tightening, hold sturdy as he steadies himself. the gas gauge wavers before normalizing. his heart pounds on beat with the clash of cymbals. 

“no,” a fruitless attempt to put his thoughts into verbal form. “i mean,” and his hand comes off of the wheel to gesture something beyond speech. 

tim listens with a rapt, unwavering focus. not encountering interruption, martin continues to fill the conversation’s silence. his breath hitches as shame crawls up his neck, temperature rising. it’s hard to admit to what he’s about to. it’s both an attempt to impress and redeem.

“all hope is gone was their best album, is all,”

that gets a laugh out of tim, loud and refreshing over the bridge. the cymbals crash another time as the turning signal comes on, diverging from the beat and playing completely out of time.

“ _ no _ ,” insistent. tim starts and stops, pauses punctuated by the restrained wheezing. turning in his spot again, hand going for the lever to lift the back of the seat. “no, no it wasn’t! martin, are you serious?” 

martin visibly cringes, closing his eyes to keep from seeing his friend’s face before remembering he’s  _ driving  _ and  _ needs to keep his eyes on the road _ . coping through the embarrassment, he opens and closes his hands around the wheel. he doesn’t need to say anything for tim to percieve his opinion as genuine.

  
  


“martin,” tim goads.

there’s no response, not an immediate one, that is. the blinker is loud against his own silence, one of defiance. martin turns to park between two cars, narrowly avoiding the bumper. the vehicle rumbles, stuttering then coming close to stalling. it doesn’t, thankfully sparing him an extra side of shame. he rests, momentarily, taking a deep breath and jerks the stick into neutral. tim gives a look. martin parks the car in first gear, hand trembling as it goes for the brake. 

“martin,” tim repeats himself.

“what?”

his arm rests on martin’s shoulder, reaching across from his seat. tim looks at him with sad eyes, something martin reads as completely sincere. there’s an air of seriousness that surrounds, not there before. his expression goes slack, anticipating the worst. then tim lets out a breath, a quiet-compact sigh.

“your taste in music needs some serious improvement.”

martin  _ squawks _ , indignant, “tim!” 

the joking nature elevates some of his worry, weight dissolving into thin air. martin blindly goes for the door handle, eyes still on his idiot friend. something warm pours downside his back, warmth settling on the nape of his neck. tim mimicks the gesture, getting a grip on the handle. a solid thunk emits, they both exit the car. separate before colliding, tim finding martin’s side. he lets him.

they talk and back forth, batting separate topics on the way to their final destination - tim’s doorstep. the outdoor lamp is dim and buzzing, a moth orbits the dying light. martin says something that tim’s brain doesn’t quite catch, mouth moving without the words processing. 

he makes a face again, the one that comes when the words don’t go through - through one ear and out the other. martin blows a breath out, short and quick.

airy. dumbly, tim goes, “what?” his mouth is pinched into a smile, stupid and light. 

martin grins too, not-at all surprised - instead, charmed. 

“your keys, tim,” skirting around sounding serious. he’s off the mark, though, and tim must find a sliver of comedy in the tone because he laughs. tim hums and fishes his keys out, there’s a fumble that martin can’t miss. the couple of keys drop, hitting the door mat. martin’s mind goes through a thousand loops before he bends down to pick them back up. 

tim, from above blinks - not even realizing. he laughs again, and it patters out as he and martin’s hand brush. he’s uncharacteristically quiet, it carves out the silence into something uneasy.

something begins hollowing itself out. the air encompassing them begins to change as tim gets the key into the hole. it all begins to click after that, a domino-effect falling one after another just as martin follows tim inside. he locks the door after them once they’re both in, feeling like a fish swimming against the stream. martin’s hooked, though, trailing after tim.

there’s conversation between the two that martin’s mind doesn’t remember, topic going without process and filter. his face is hot, blood turning over into a simmer. it’s as if his brain falls into a sudden blank state, everything turning into the walls of a tunnel. tim is the light at the end.

*

the events that lead to him lying on a futon is beyond him.

something about spending the night. something about the two of them driving early tomorrow to pick up martin’s car. he can't quite recall.

there’s a blanket under his arms, folded over himself. in the dark, he feels himself being lost. martin isn’t sure what the lapse in memory is indicative of, certain that he wasn’t  _ that  _ overwhelmed. it’s a surprising extreme he finds himself at, so passed the regular discomfort leap he pushes himself toward. 

martin stares up at the speckled ceiling, counting half-made drips and miniature-pits threatening to fall. racking his brain, he tries to remember if he had taken what was prescribed, whether it is or isn’t his fault for his psyche out-stretching himself. there’s no point, because there’s no way to check. he turns onto his side, arm protesting under the weight when lied upon. getting his eyes to close is a struggle, and he strains against himself to get some sleep. there’s an anxiety filling the hollow he’s made.

receiving care, even the bare minimum is so new to him. he wonders why tim does, spends time overstepping the boundary of friendly coworker - taking steps into a place unknown. guard down, martin thinks - he thinks letting tim in would do no harm. there’s no sharp edge to him that’ll sever the soft strings surrounding martin’s own heart. applying the same situation, pressing the prompt onto another - it doesn’t play out the same in his mind when it’s someone else. still, he wonders why.

and when martin sleeps, his mind supplies the answer.

for their future selves, for the sake of them, he thinks that he’d do just about anything. the thought would normally leave him trembling, the weight tremendous - but the exhaustion pacifies all. 

morning comes.

*

tim leaves a cup of water on the table nearby, an attempt to be courteous. his head is clogged and cloudy, face barely worn. the routine he follows is untethered by martin’s presence, somehow. body slow to catch up, he drags himself to the bathroom. going through the steps, he washes his face - only momentarily distracted by his reflection. tim ghosts a hand over his cheeks, feeling under his chin while tilting his head. the face in the mirror mimics just as it’s supposed to. with a blink, he remembers why he’s here in the first place. 

while tim takes his medication, turning the bottle upside down, martin stirs in the room over. he makes sure the container valences properly on the lid before closing the cabinet.

it’s scarily domestic. 

when reentering the room, tim watches the weight of his steps. martin snorts at that, already sat up. 

“i’m up,” he says, signalling audibly. hand already going for his glasses, the other headed for the mug provided. fingers curling around the handle, he feels out the temperature. “warm,” he comments.

tim huffs out a laugh before turning a corner, speaking from the other side of a kitchen island. the fridge releases air once opened, just as he starts talking again.

“yeah, it is. just figured..” he trails off, already finding something to laugh about. voice wavering as he giggles to himself. “well,” putting down words without a target. “ _ you know _ .”

from the futon, martin tries to string a response together. standing, then stretching, careful with the cup still in-hand. a gust of air taken in, then let out. his ear rings weakly, momentarily lightheaded.    
  
“right,” martin says. “no, you guessed right.” his mom takes water hot too, but he doesn’t feel pressed to say so. 

something burns in the background, past martin’s line of sight. the smell makes his head spin and nose burn, he tries not to cringe - instead sipping from his cup. the warmth cuts away some of the edge. tim blinks before looking his shoulder, then leaping for the counter. an exclamation is made, but what is is - what it was, martin can’t make it out. 

curiosity kills. he steps away from the pile of blankets, both hands cupping the mug by the time he’s close enough to see. there’s char peeking out from the toaster, burnt to hell. martin tries not to laugh, because it’d make him feel bad and it’s too early for trivial guilt. tim, on the other hand, cackles at the failure. 

“...shit!” with a careful hand, tim pinches the edge of the pieces and plucks them out of the heat. he drops the two onto a plate, expression pulled into something between perplexed and not. opposite hand cranking the toaster’s knob down. 

they’re both equally dumbfounded. 

“well,” tim starts. 

“well.” martin finishes. 

with a click of the tongue, what’s left of the toast is discarded. tim tsk’s to himself, murmuring something unintelligible soon after. he says a word or two that martin’s ears don’t catch, but he won’t bother. instead, martin stares into his mug, squinting at his own reflection and wondering what tim must see. the thought comes from nowhere, and he’s not sure if he should ruminate. he tries not to, fearful for what the reasoning may be.

laughing, tim throws another set into the toaster before turning to turn the stovetop on. he shakes his hand off, then moves the pan onto the surface. 

the knob clicks. “that sucked an awful alot!” he chirps, spoken without a care.

martin smiles behind the lip of his cup, speaking into the bottom of it. echoing, “great - good, really astute observation.” there’s a beat of silence. “breakfast?”

the answer is obvious, he’s not sure why he even asked. tim doesn’t seem bothered though, instead nodding. relief comes and goes, working like the ocean greeting the shore. 

*

it turns out tim has no problem being hospitable, but that comes as no surprise. they eat breakfast together, and martin feels the same uncertain air that had come with the drive over. there’s nothing to counteract the steadily growing nerves, building and burning. the sensation folds over itself, renewing seamlessly, a ceaseless flame.

somewhere, somehow through the eating an agreement is formed. from there, a plan follows as the day begins to snowball down an unending hill. 

tim is disorganized, it’s something martin’s grown fond over in a way. the guy has his moments, and he does too so the frustration never really comes. they bat around the something-something-topic while martin separates egg on his plate, fork grazing the surface underneath. he has an arm propped up, leaning on it while tim goes on. privately chomping at the bit.

and the fog forming parts, a peek made between the curtains then made. with a blink, martin’s focus returns. he must sound stupid, “sorry,” barely audible. “what was that?”

he expects a mock-in store, anticipating something sharp. though, the only way to describe the face looking back is soft. expression molded into a certain forgiving. there’s a stifled smile and a warm look to tim’s eye. 

“said,” he starts, then stops, mouth opening only to close. eye tracking the ceiling, forming circles with his mind. a stutter presents itself visually, just as the train of thought plummets off of unfinished tracks. the recovery is quick, once found. clearing his throat, “got distracted, you know. asked when you’d be ready to leave.”

martin’s voice comes out too high for his liking. “oh?” it’s beyond him why his body self-sabotages the kept together exterior already set up. 

a second ticks by, and the world continues its motion. he realizes, with delay, that he hadn’t answered. instead of responding, an anxious wheeze plays into the conversation. tim tilts his head, skeptical - not judgemental, curious without an underlying aim. 

“something the matter?” it’s casual, barely registered as having concern intertwined. tim can’t hide the furrow of his brows, confused above all. “cat got your tongue?”

an agitation soaks into martin’s skin, settling past the muscle and deep into bone. a scratch soon spreads, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. cagey, martin narrowly avoids biting his own tongue off. “no,” to keep from elaborating, he chews on his fork’s end. 

tim mumbles something quiet and unheard. then, he claps his hands together like their exchange was a book needing to be closed. shelved away, surrounded. there’s an unmistakable moment of hesitation, where tim’s mouth is open while the mind catches up to provide words. 

almost like a child, counting down until they can uncover - discover - rediscover his friends. there’s a sense of teasing, small and barely there. the energy ghosts across each word, netting over every one. 

“...if,” he begins, tone taking a turn into playful-suspicion. “...you,” tim continues while watching his friend’s posture. “...say so!”

it’s clear that he’s expectant, anticipating the bolts to come loose and for a flooding to begin. martin’s tuned to pick-up on quick changes in atmosphere, a product of deep-settled oversensitivity. but, he tries to dig his heels in, bunker down out of sheer habit. gnawing, still, at the fork’s end while trying to pick apart his thoughts. the curtains have closed, though.

“i’d say so,” martin emphasizes, tone somehow kept tame.”...because, i did say so.” a delayed thought swings back and forth over his focus, coherency brought between left and right. the fog presents itself, starting right between his eyes. he tries not to grimace, headache steadily forming.

the face tim makes corrodes the resolve, a fast-acting solution against the barriers built. with the bite of silence, he hums. and martin laments, giving in.

tim is understanding, he always seems to be with the sensitive stuff - with the things he can wrap his mind around and identify with. something comes undone, rope falling into the water. his personal hell begins to float down stream. and for all the hell that that the archives bring, this slice of heaven is worth it.

he is at the top of a cliff, a leap presenting itself in metaphor. the air around guides him to dive, and when he jumps - there is an anchor - and he willingly drowns. deep waters surround him, and tim breathes air back into him. a constant force that keeps him from suffocating.

*

it’s easier to breathe with this car ride, some tension relieved. this time around, martin is in the passenger seat. with a hand, he cradles his head, nursing the worsening ache. tim says something, and the words sound far away despite the lacking distance. it feels like his chest, after years of being wound up has finally come undone.

early morning sky stretches itself out, spanning across to stay in the window’s frame. martin watches, eyes flickering from side to side - capturing image seconds after they pass. tim has the same music from the night before playing, loud and chaotic. the crashing in the song works its way underneath his skin, stars bursting underneath the muscle leaving him restless. using the dim reflection provided, martin glances at tim. he takes a breath, ready to stoke the dying light. 

“tim?”

and he looks for a moment, barely any, before focusing on the road in front of them. he seems to jump when addressed, then quickly calming, beaming like the sun is about to be extinguished. 

“martin.” tim chides, mimicking the tone given. there’s no foul play here, no antagonistic nature to be found. instead, there’s a grin forming, soft and certain. 

the ball is in his court now, and he hesitates. martin presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, feeling for the words.

“sorry, ‘bout earlier, tim.” that’s enough, just for now. there’s a promise stuck between his teeth, a sentiment he can’t knock loose. a hum, only to clear the air and his throat. “i’m not normally the type to bear my soul out of nowhere, really, i’m not. but -” 

and by the end of his statement, he’s certain he’s trying to convince himself more than his driver.

“martin?” quick without the intention of cutting off. tim resituates himself in his seat, unnerved but untethered. gently, “it’s no - never a problem.”

a restlessness bores itself somewhere deep in tim’s chest, solidifying into a crushing weight. he swallows dryly, working around the lump in his throat. the seed has been planted, and a warmth blossoms in place of the unease. something begs to be reaped. he chitters, once, then twice before locking his jaw. martin isn’t oblivious, but he’s got no reason to point out the change in energy, unbothered. everyone has their thing.

“right.” firm when he means to be soft, and he goes through the stages of disciplining himself. there’s no points to follow, no easy a-to b because this is a conversation and people aren’t one dimensional - and because he’s overthinking himself into a hole he won’t ever find the way out from. reminders, that’s all he needed to remember. martin clears his throat, and that temporarily clears his conscience. “thank you.”

it’s hard to give thanks, it’s hard to take them too.

but the combined anxious energy pivots into something else, a warm and rounded sense of togetherness. it’s clear as day, as striking as the sky combing past the windows. the world spins onward, and the fuzzy moment does not fizzle out. it stretches taut, straining to extend longer than it should be possible to. even if there words that could be used to elaborate, explain when and why the epiphany pours over them. it is a fresh set of paint, color bright - saturated by them being together.

people just want to feel understood. they don’t want to feel alone. loneliness is not inescapable forever, but it’s grasp can be warded away with short scenes like this. 

  
the day before, the day now, the days to come. if martin could talk to himself yesterday, he’d try to peel the nerves back, whittle away the overthinking to make room for openness. and he wonders too, what his future self would say to him now, in this exact moment. tim bids him a goodbye, always friendly. there’s fondness tracking after it, a bigger smile, a brand new flush to his cheeks. it’s when he’s standing outside his own door that he asks himself, replaying the words with a fine recollection, ‘ _ any last words for our future selves _ ?’ 


End file.
